


Paper Thin Hotel

by interstitial, millygal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: And Sam Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, But With Bonus Sex, Canon Compliant, Drunk Sex, Explicit Consent, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sandwich/Two-on-One Oral, Porn with Feelings, Threesome - M/M/M, Wing Kink, tfw big bang 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 10:50:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15884550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interstitial/pseuds/interstitial, https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal
Summary: Sam loves Dean, and Cas loves Dean, and Dean loves fiercely but not always well. From the panic room through every variation of anger, betrayal, and loss the universe can throw at them, it’s all a recipe for unhappiness and disaster. Someone has to lose, and maybe they all do.Fortunately, Team Free Will has never been good at taking a hint.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story started as a short addition to a post imagining Cas’ wings as a color-changing mood ring. And now here it is more than a year later, morphed into a 13,000+ word porny paean to multipartner relationships, sex as emotional expression, and perseverance when love is difficult. The pretty color-changing wings are still there too. :)
> 
> Love and thank you to my wonderful Bang artist, [millygal.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/works) You were great to work with, your art is amazing, and thanks for being so patient with a first time Bang author. Check out millygal's awesome masterpost [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15893397).
> 
> And all of my thanks and love to my amazing beta, [ameliacareful.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliacareful/pseuds/ameliacareful/works?fandom_id=27) Your editing was gentle, on point, and made me feel warm and happy. ♥ I apologize for the spots I was too stubborn and/or not skilled enough to follow your advice in. All the remaining mistakes are directly attributable to that. I encourage everyone to go read straight down ameliacareful's list of works; I can't recommend a single one of them highly enough.

 

 2009.

Sam wakes to an explosion of light. His hands jerk up to shield his eyes. They only make it an inch or two before pulling up short against hard metal. He's in the panic room, handcuffed to a cot. Castiel is there, the cause of Sam's awakening, with his back to the curved concrete wall and his wings extended out on either side of him. They look like the wings of a bird made of napalm and fire.

Castiel is silent. All Sam's other hallucinations talked to him. They all tried to influence him, or told him terrible things about himself that weren't news to Sam in the slightest. Castiel just stands there, blazing like a beacon, as pure and shadowless as Heaven itself.

"Why're you here," Sam complains. Detox hasn’t been kind to him. His skin burns and his blood flows hot and sluggish as lava through his veins, and he thought before Castiel arrived there was no place left that didn’t already hurt. But it turns out he was wrong, because Castiel's wings are so bright Sam's eyes sting now too. He has to turn his head away, while the tears leak down his cheeks as he blinks. He's miserable, and wants to be left alone.

"Here to remind me what a 'bomination I am?" His voice comes out cracked and hoarse. Imaginary-Alastair's been working on Sam, and Sam's been screaming. He clears his throat as best he can. "Here t' tell me it's my own fault Dean doesn't trust me? You can go away; I got that already, thanks."

"Why won't you face me, Sam Winchester?" Castiel asks flatly.

"I. What?"

It's obvious why, and it startles Sam, and he looks again. Its not any better the second time around. His eyes tear up and he squints against the glare. God, his head hurts something awful.

"You're too bright," he explains- stupidly- to his own hallucination. He forgets he's cuffed and tries to gesture toward his eyes. The padding Dean wrapped around his wrists to protect them doesn’t extend quite high enough, and Sam flinches when the metal hits the raw mess of skin above it.

"I am too... bright," Castiel repeats, like either he or Sam is a muddled child.

"Your wings."

"You can see my wings."

Castiel frowns absently, and cocks Jimmy Novak's head to the side.

"Go away, Castiel." Sam is exhausted and thirsty and the room smells like piss and he's four-pointed to the bed and can't even roll to his side. Everything hurts. He just wants this all to be over. "Leave me to suffer in peace. Or if you- if I, my blood, whatever- can't do that, send Dean back. At least he doesn’t melt my eyeballs out."

Castiel's gaze cuts to the door. The blinding light of his wings flickers like a brown-out.

"Dean; yes. You betrayed Dean," he says. He sounds oddly tentative for such a self-evident pronouncement, like he's trying it on to see how it fits.

Sam gets a flash of memory, as bright in its way as Castiel is: Dean in the ICU, silent and still after Alastair beat him unconscious. Dean's freckles stood out like ink spots against the paper paleness of his shocky skin. His chest rose and fell in time with the respirator doing his breathing for him, and Castiel, who raised Dean from Hell and breathed life into his rotting, desiccated corpse, stood in the hall and said there was nothing he could do to help.

Dean cried, like he cried describing Hell. Sam can't afford to care whether what he's become is a betrayal or not.

"Well that makes two of us then," he says bitterly.

Castiel doesn't deny it.

"Are you repentant?" he asks.

Sam shifts on his bare mattress. He twitches one shoulder, a half-assed excuse for a shrug. "Not really," he says, although he's never felt more guilty in his life. Repentance implies he would stop. "I'm doing what I have to."

Castiel's expression is cold and unreadable. His wings flare out, incandescent, and he disappears.

Sam watches the ventilation fan spin lazily above him. He repositions his legs the few inches he can. His feet hang off the end of the cot. He misses Dean.

He especially misses the Dean who's gone forever now; the one who hadn't clutched his brother's dead body in his arms yet, and been ruined by it; who'd never been tortured by a master, or shown that he could break. He misses the things he once hated- Dean's stupid pranks and his easy petty crime, his disgusting gas station food chewed with his mouth wide open, his obliviousness when he'd recount his sexual exploits while Sam seethed with ill-defined jealousy at his side.

But he misses the harder, post-Hell Dean too. That Dean's absence from the concrete hole he's imprisoned his brother in is enough to break Sam's heart.

Eventually Sam's fever exhausts him, and he closes his eyes. Maybe he dozes, or maybe he just lies there drifting through his pain. He startles back into alertness when he hears the metal grind of the panic room door opening.

The handcuffs restraining him snap open one by one, wrists first, then ankles. The door swings wide, no one in evidence to account for it, and Sam gathers himself and stumbles out. His legs are rubbery from being confined too long. As he's staggering up the basement stairs a flicker of movement catches the corner of his eye.

Hidden in the gloom between two sets of rusted shelving is Castiel. He's wearing Jimmy Novak's body like an ill-fitting coat, more awkward even than usual. His expression is a harsh, inanimate fresco in the safety light above the door. If his wings are out, they aren't visible now. The basement is as dark as a crypt.

Sam pretends not to see Castiel. He trudges up the rest of the stairs. Behind him, Castiel raises a hand, and the door Sam escaped out creaks closed again. The lock snicks back into place. They'll never speak of it, to Dean or to each other. Sam's not even sure who the "they" are that hold this tiny corner of Sam's treachery to their chests. Sam and Castiel, or only Sam alone?

 

-*-*-

2011.

The plain is dry and featureless. The wall Sam sits against is smooth and black and stretches forever in either direction. In front of Sam stands Cas.

"Cas," Sam says, "I thought you-" But Sam forgets what he thought and has to stop.

Cas takes a step toward Sam, and spreads his wings. His feathers are deep wine red, the tips of his primaries burnished gold. He's wearing Jimmy Novak, like he always is, but Jimmy is wearing armor, and a plain gold circlet instead of a helm.

Fear blows through Sam like a bitter wind. Dean told him not to come here _(stay away from the wall, don't scratch the wall),_ and Cas' expression is flat and blank, and Sam would back away, except his spine is already pressed flush against the cold stone behind him, and there's nowhere left to go.

Voices drift past without any visible source. A stranger's: -- _long has he been seizing_ \--

And Dean's, a little clearer, tight with irritation and panic: _A long-ass time, okay? Forgot to check my watch while I held his stupid head off the blacktop._

Sam looks, but there's only the empty desert and the wall and Cas. Off in the distance, a siren wails, and the landscape rocks gently, like the bed of a moving truck.

"Where's Dean?" Sam asks.

"Dean is occupied."

 _Sam_ , Dean's voice comes from nowhere, _Wake up._

Sam tries to stand, but Cas advances on him, and there isn't room to move.

"Dean needs me," Sam says. He means it as an exit line, but it comes out sounding like a plea.

"And what about what I need?" Cas asks, "I need the souls from Purgatory to win the war in Heaven. I need you and Dean, if not as allies, at least to stand down. I asked Dean, as a friend," Cas' lip curls in contempt, "And he told me he would hunt me. We don't always get what we need."

Cas looms over Sam, his armored boots nearly touching Sam's toes. He's much too close. Sam's feet inch back the tiny remaining bit they can, knees folding in toward his chest.

_C'mon, lazy bones, you're freaking me out here. Wakey-wakey, eggs and bac-ey. Jesus, Sam._

"Dean is calling me," Sam says stubbornly, like a child. His heart is pounding, and he's nauseous, and his head hurts something fierce. His memory is full of holes. He doesn't understand why he's afraid.

_"Goddamn you, Cas, you get your feathery ass back here and fix him! He went to Hell for your friggin' Apocalypse once already. Isn't that enough?"_

"I wish it hadn't come to this," Cas says gravely. When Sam stares up at him, Cas' wings block out the sun. "I'm truly sorry, Sam."

He does sound sorry. He looks sad.

He reaches out a hand.

His wings turn midnight black, and he touches the wall, and it crumbles, and Sam screams.

He screams and curls himself into the smallest ball he possibly can, and tucks himself in tight against the bits of rubble that can't protect him anymore. Tears stream from his eyes. He's alone in an endless, frozen desert. The sky is a terrifying swirl of colors and blinding light. Dean is gone, and Cas is gone, and Sam knows he deserves to be here, but he can't remember why.

Eventually he forgets why he's screaming, so he stops. He forgets why he's hiding, so he gets up and walks. He finds a sleek, black car. It looks familiar. The keys are in it. He gets in, and starts it up, and drives away, alone.


	2. Chapter 2

 2014.

The night after the location spell fails, Sam finds himself back in the bunker's library, putting away the brass bowl and the herbs and the outsize, glass syringe they collected Gadreel's grace in. The bunker is dark and echoes with emptiness. Cas is standing at one of the tables, a book of Enochian spell-work in one hand, his broken wings frayed out behind him. They glow grace-blue, and there's a circle of light cast out around them, but it's paltry, not even enough to read by. Everything else is filled with the darkness of Dean's absence.

"You should call your brother," Cas says. "Ignoring him won't fix anything."

Cas holds the spell book out to Sam and it's not a book, it's a phone. It's Sam's phone. Sam stares at it like he's staring down a rattlesnake.

“No," he says, "I shouldn’t."

There's a prickly feeling between Sam's shoulder blades, almost a physical touch. A ghost, or maybe a curse; something that would make Sam call up his brother and tell him a truth from the growing collection they'd never survive. He looks over his shoulder, but there's nothing there.

"He loves you," Cas chides, like Sam doesn't know that already. Like the problem isn't that Dean loves Sam _too much_ , would lock Sam in a castle, or maybe just a secret warded prison in the basement of a junkyard, to keep Sam from escaping and coming to ruin.

Cas sighs. He abandons the book/phone on the table, and crosses the few steps of darkness that separate him from Sam. His wings mantle like he's banking in midair, turning back to pluck Sam's soul out of Hell, where he forgot it the first time around.

"Sam-" he starts. He's using his benevolent, Be Not Afraid tone.

Sam's not interested.

His fist clenches, and the syringe shatters. There's a knife-jolt of pain in his hand, but Cas isn’t Lucifer, and he doesn't disappear. Shards of glass scatter across the floor. One piece, curved and larger than a quarter, ends up embedded in Sam's hand. He stares at it blankly. Blood runs in tendrils down his wrist, and drips off his forearm into the dark.

"Sam, let me."

Cas gathers up Sam's hand in his own. He smooths Sam's fingers flat. He doesn't pull the glass out; it just disappears, blood gone, injury gone, as if nothing ever happened. Cas strokes his fingers over the newly unmarred map of Sam's palm. The skin feels fragile and oversensitive where the scar used to be.

The phone begins to clatter as it lies in wait on the table, vibrating with an incoming call. The ringtone plays _Stairway to Heaven_.

"You're not going to get that?" Cas asks.

Sam is not.

Cas pulls Sam's fingers to his lips. He kisses the tips, feather-light and kind. A shiver travels up Sam's spine.

"I'm sorry you're lonely, Sam," Cas says. His wings glow softly in the darkness. He lays his hands along Sam's waist and pulls him closer.

Sam wants to deny it, claim he isn't lonely, only angry. But Dean's betrayal doesn’t feel like he expected. The anger is fragile, as easy to break as the stem of a flower, and under it is a bottomless chasm of grief. His chest aches, and he feels hollow inside, bereft of anything worthwhile, and the reason he won't talk to Dean isn't because Sam wants to punish him, but because he's afraid it would feel too much like talking to a ghost.

Cas cups Sam's face between his hands. His grip is infinitely gentle, like he's holding something delicate and precious.

Sam knows he's dreaming now, and that tastes bitter too. What does it say about him that the magically transforming book-phone wasn't enough to clue him in, but Cas touching him so tenderly is plenty.

"We've made- _I've made_ errors too, Sam."

Sam doesn't care. He was dying, and Dean folded himself into Sam's neurons, into his spirit and his death, and gave it all- and Sam's body too- to an absolute stranger. Sam's having a sex dream about Cas, and Dean's not even here, and he's _still_ occupying every corner. Cas, like everything else in Sam's life, ultimately belongs to Dean.

Fuck it. Sam is done.

When Cas tilts his head up, Sam leans down in reply. He lets their mouths drift together. He opens his lips and presses his tongue into Cas' mouth. Cas' breath is dream-sweet, heady like the scent of lilacs or a spell, and Sam breathes it in, lets it erase everything else.

He cards one hand through the perpetual chaos of Cas' hair, snakes the other under his inherited trench coat. He strokes down Cas' back, tangles his fingers in the electric remains of Cas' feathers, lets them spark like static against his skin. He grabs Cas' ass and pulls him in tight, so he can grind against the half-hard line of Cas' cock. He stands there with Cas in the grief-blasted library, and the two of them neck like horny teens, alone together.

And then, with the fractured logic of dreams, they're naked in Sam's bed. Sam is on his back. Cas is knelt between his legs. His hands are on Sam's thighs. His body- Jimmy Novak's body- is lean and hard and graceful, custom-built for a warrior of God.

Cas leans down over Sam, moves his hands up to cup Sam's face again, and this time there's nothing delicate or gentle about it at all. He holds Sam's head in the spot he wants, and kisses him hard, tongue deep in Sam's mouth, teeth knocking off Sam's, no finesse, messy and full of intent. When he breaks the kiss, his eyes stay locked on Sam's as he kneels back up on his heels and pushes Sam's thighs farther apart. He lays two fingers on Sam's lower lip.

Sam moans, and takes them into his mouth. He nips at them, runs his tongue between them, closes his lips and sucks. Cas moans too.

Cas runs his other hand over the muscles of Sam's chest, and tweaks his nipples into hard, aching points. Sam is tense in every muscle, nearly shaking. His cock is leaking slick trails of precome where it's jutted up against his belly. Desire gathers hot inside him, but intertwined with it, impossible to separate, is also fear. He is going to let Castiel, _an angel_ , fuck him. He has got to be insane. He's sucking on the fingers of a blinding, killing star.

They feel perfectly ordinary in his mouth, though, no different than the few times he's been with human men. Cas slides his fingers across Sam's tongue, hooks them behind his teeth, gathers up Sam's saliva, and then withdraws them, wet and shiny.

"I'd like to enter you," he says, "May I?" His voice is solemn, and Sam is afraid. Look at what Cas is asking for.

But _yes_ , Sam says, _yes_. This is what he wants, what's burning up inside him- not sex, though he wants that too, but the chance to agree and, this time, mean it.

"I wont hurt you," Cas reassures him.

Sam chokes on a bubble of laughter. When he wakes up in the morning, Dean will still be gone, and this moment of comfort will have been no realer than Gadreel's cheerleaders were. It hurts already.

Cas raises an eyebrow, but lets it go. He trails his fingers behind Sam's balls, pushes into Sam with his index finger.

It feels weird, like it always does to Sam at first; he doesn't do this often enough to ever lose that moment of surprised rediscovery. But then he tightens around Cas' finger and it just feels great. Cas finds his prostate and it's even better.

Cas' free hand skims along Sam's hip bone, moves across his stomach to stroke Sam's cock. It's the smooth, uncalloused hand of an accountant, human warm. Uncomplicated.

"More, Cas," Sam begs.

Cas fingers him open.

"Okay?" Cas asks.

"Yes, yes, god, Cas, come on."

Cas lines up the head of his cock, breaches Sam, rocks himself in. He bends down over Sam so they can kiss.

Cas sets up a rhythm and Sam succeeds in losing himself in it- forgets for a moment all the things he's been trying not to remember. ( _Dean, Dean, where's Dean, what's Dean doing, is he safe, sorry, angry, missing Sam, doing something stupid, self-destructive, crazy, Sam is being childish, unforgiving, he knows it, he should do better, be better-_ ) Sam's heels dig into the bed. He pushes up to meet Cas pushing down. His fingers dig into the muscles of Cas' ass, maneuver his hips so their bodies crash together harder. Cas is panting, sweat dripping off him. His wings are nowhere to be seen or felt. Heat is pooled low in Sam's groin, his cock rock-hard against his stomach.

Cas' rhythm falters. His eyes close, and he stills. He comes silently, his face impassive. He doesn't call Sam's name, but he doesn't call Dean's either, so Sam guesses it's fine.

Cas takes a moment, breathing in deep, and then props himself up on one elbow, takes Sam's cock in hand, starts to stroke him off.

Cas' fist is a warm, slick slice of heaven on earth, and Sam has been plateaued already for quite a while. It's impossible that what Sam mostly feels now is disappointment. And yet, dream logic. The dream wants something else from him. He isn't going to come.

Cas rolls to his side, and his dick slips out of Sam's ass. The pressure of Cas' fingers slows to a lazy crawl up and down Sam's shaft.

"What can I do for you, Sam?"

Sam doesn’t know.

Cas smooths the sweat-damp hair off Sam's forehead. He kisses Sam's temple close-mouthed, a gentle laying on of lips. Kisses Sam's cheek, the edge of his jaw, the pulse point on his neck, kisses his neck again, less chaste, and again, and licks across his collarbone, over to Sam's shoulder, and then Cas pauses. His fingers ghost lightly on Sam's chest in the spot where he burned off Sam's tattoo so Crowley could possess him.

He looks into Sam's eyes, searching for something, Sam doesn't know what. His expression is unreadable, and his eyes are inhumanly blue, the color not of Jimmy Novak's ancestry, but of grace.

The rhythm of Cas hand speeds up, wet with Sam's precome, goal-directed again. His grip is firm and insistent, but the slide is easy as silk.

Sam's cock twitches, and there's a tiny ripple of the buzzing heat that comes before orgasm. His balls are drawn up tight against his body. Sam's hips buck, his body chasing his climax without him. Cas strokes him, holds him. Sam's standing on the precipice, his toes over the edge in empty space. He can't quite jump.

"Cas, Cas, I can't."

Sam needs to come so very badly.

"Say yes again, Sam."

The world inside Sam's head is jagged and disconnected. He knows that dreams aren't immune from the rules of the supernatural, but his dream-self doesn't care.

"Sure, Cas, yeah," he pants.

The hand not stripping Sam's dick slaps down, palm firm against Sam's chest, above his heart. Cas' wings flare into visibility; huge, and jagged in their ruin, and bright, bright bluest-white. He's still jacking Sam hard, and his body is warm and solid, still half on Sam, so they're skin to skin all along Sam's side and hip and thigh.

But now there's also more.

Cas' naked body casts a blurry blue-white glow into the air around it. It changes shape as it expands, a lion, an eagle, a flock of ravens multiplying to fill Sam's room. Cas' palm against Sam's chest radiates warmth that flows like ripples through Sam's skin and deep into his muscle and bone. The room is filled with light, and Sam is filled with light and heat, and he feels heavy, like its too much work to move, and he's full of static, there’s a roaring in his ears, and his heart is pounding, and he feels-

He remembers this, and he's frozen, terrified. He wants to move but holds himself carefully still, too afraid he’ll find out for sure that he can’t.

"Let go, Sam," Cas says. The lips of Cas' body move, but Cas' voice comes from everywhere and from nowhere specific. It's a glass-shattering whine in the air of Sam's room and a rumble and vibration deep in Sam's body. "You’re safe. I'm here with you."

It feels good; the rumble and the heat and Cas' calm inside Sam's panicked body, and the warm, tight tunnel of Cas' fist around his cock.

Sam steels himself, and moves a finger.

It's effortless, thank god, and a little piece of Sam's fear chips off and blows away. He lifts his arm. The sensation is no different than it ever is. He lays his hand on Cas' shoulder, runs his palm down Cas' arm.

"You're possessing me?" he asks.

"Part of me is occupying the same space as you."

Sam doesn't know what that means. Is it possession or something else?

He brings his hands up into Cas' broken feathers. They feel as soft as down, and he strokes his fingers through them, like he's petting a cat. They throw off multicolored sparks under Sam's hands. Cas moans, deep in his throat.

“Does it hurt, Cas? Where your wings are broken?”

“Nnnnnh,” Cas purrs, “Now? No, Sam. It feels wonderful.”

It feels good to Sam too, a buzzing vibration from the tips of his fingers all the way up his wrists, where his hands are buried in the infinite softness of Cas' wings, and he realizes that yes, some part of what makes up Cas is inside Sam, but _Sam is also in Cas_. Cas strokes him, and the waves of Sam's pleasure have been building for so long that when he finally tips over the edge, it's almost a surprise. He shoots sticky white over Cas' hand. Streams of come land warm on his chest.

Then he wakes.

What a dream.

He rolls over and groans. He has a headache. He's still furious at Dean, and he glares at the cell phone laying innocently on his bedside table, preemptively angry in case anyone has texted or might expect him to do the same.

But he has to admit he doesn't feel quite so razed flat inside. There's a light dusting of solace covering the ache of his heart. It never came the times Dean died, but he recognizes it from when he was mourning Jess- not comfort exactly, but the knowledge that life goes on and eventually he will too.

He wanders out to the bunker's common areas, and Cas is in the library, and asks how he is and offers coffee. Sam remembers him naked, dripping sweat, pushing into Sam and moaning. Heat rushes to Sam's cheeks, but Cas appears mercifully oblivious. They sit together and talk about the politics of Heaven, and whether Sam should take a case while they wait for further developments. They come to no conclusions. Neither of them mentions Dean.


	3. Chapter 3

2016.

They're at a nightclub in L.A., and the patrons are streaming under Sam's outstretched arms like they're escaping the gates of Hell. Sam is holding the doors open with his entire body. He bows his head and makes a solid line of his arms and shoulders and the top of his back.

When the last civilian ducks under Sam's arm and brushes by, Sam breathes a sigh of relief, and looks over his shoulder, and there is Lucifer; dressed up as a rock star; his wings spread wide, the same burning red as the lights and all the decor. Ladyheart's crown of thorns logo is above his head. He's staring straight at Sam and squeezing his fist. The doors slam shut.

Lucifer goes for Dean and Cas first. He swats Cas away like a bug, sends Dean flying with a single sweep of his power.

Of course it's that simple and that fast. They came here unprepared, the three of them. Now he has Dean and Cas, and that means he has Sam. Why didn’t Sam object, back at the bunker, when they made this tacked-together plan in the first place? Maybe- maybe if it was Cas, if Lucifer took just Cas. Maybe then Sam could still resist him.

He can't lose Dean again though. Lucifer was right about the weak, pathetic thing Sam has become. He'll say yes and burn the world.

Vince Vincente's face sneers, and Lucifer's wings are a brutal flash-fire behind him, flames and pain and all the colors of Hell. Sam’s heart hammers, and he’s breathing too fast. He does his best not to cower. But Lucifer only monologues while he burns through his host's body, and then he disappears in an anti-climactic cloud of silver-blue, and it turns out Sam had nothing to worry about. Lucifer had other plans, and its okay, they're all okay. Sam's on the street being consoled by Dean, while Cas and Crowley bicker. It's cold for L.A. and the night sky is orange with light pollution.

They walk back to the Impala, and Dean and Cas post-game the case while Dean drives. Sam shivers in the shotgun seat. He's got a migraine. It's almost one a.m. Dean's voice sounds far away.

 

-*-*-

They stop for the night outside Fort Mojave, in a motel with a particularly ugly abstract expressionism theme going on.

Dean and Cas salt the threshold and the window sills, clean the guns, plug the cell phones and Sam's laptop in to charge for what's left of the night. Cas scrolls through the cable guide on the antiquated TV. Dean eats two bacon double cheeseburgers, a large fries, and three apple pies from the Mickey D's near the highway. He bought Sam a chicken caesar salad, but Sam's not hungry.

Sam feels lost.

Terminator 2 is on. The TV is awash with reds and yellows and oranges, skin burning off bodies, and melting playground equipment. In the background a city is in flames and all the skyscrapers fall.

The Cage wasn't really like that. It wasn't like anything. It doesn't fit inside Sam's mind.

Sam turns away from the screen, takes a deep breath, and notices he's partway through making coffee. In the middle of the night. But he'll never sleep anyway, and he needs something inconsequential to do with his hands. He pours water in the top of the coffee maker. It's not cold in the room, but he's shivering again. At least his head hurts a little less.

"Sammy?" Dean asks.

"I'm fine. Just uh-”

Sam's eyes get drawn back to the screen, and then suddenly Dean is beside him.

“You don't look fine. You look like hammered crap. Lemme get that."

Dean puts the coffee pot back on the counter and shepherds Sam to one of the beds, puts his hands on Sam's shoulders and pushes down until Sam sits.

"Dude, coffee is not what you need right now, trust me." He digs around in the gigantic first aid bag and brings out the emergency JD.

Cas has those vague wrinkles between his eyebrows that he gets when he's solving a puzzle. He doesn't really cock his head like a bird anymore, but there's still a tiny tilt that summons the whole older reaction in Sam's memory.

"We'll nail his ass, Sam," Dean says, "We will."

He holds out a plastic water glass half full of whiskey. Sam's hand shakes when he reaches for the cup. It's mortifying- he’s fine, there’s no need for his body to act like this- and the embarrassment makes his face flush hot, which just makes the whole thing worse.

He ignores it though, and gulps down a couple of swallows, and they're fortifying, the way they burn down his throat and leave no room for the cold that isn't there. He manages to agree with Dean. They'll win. The Sam who's agreeing seems far away from the one holding a plastic cup of cheap whiskey between his shaking hands.

Dean putters around soothingly, and changes into his sleep pants and an old Led Zeppelin t-shirt. Cas points his face at the TV, but watches Sam out of the corner of his eye. They chat about inconsequential things, and Dean turns down the covers on the bed nearer to the door.

He'll turn the lights off soon, and go to sleep, and Sam's drunk enough he might be able to fall asleep too.

But then he'll dream of Lucifer.

It makes his stomach ache, and his scalp feel too tight, like the migraine's coming back. He can't do it, doesn’t want to be alone with Lucifer in his head while he sleeps.

“I’m not that tired. I’ll just uh-”

What is there for him to do? It hasn’t been long enough since Vincente’s body was abandoned for Sam to try researching up whoever Lucifer’s next host will be. It’s too late for anything to be open, and Sam’s probably not safe to drive anyway. If he says he wants to go for a run in the dead of night, Dean will worry. He can watch TV, but-

“He wasn’t that bad,” Sam reassures himself, “In the club, I mean.”

“Who? Lucifer?” Dean scowls. “He’s Lucifer, Sam. He’s always that bad.”

“No; the way he looked. He wasn’t that...” Sam trails off. On the TV, Sarah Connor is picking the locks on the restraints tying her to her bed. The asylum is white and desolate. It reminds Sam of the hospital he stayed in after Cas broke his wall.

He wishes they’d stop showing her nightmare. The audience gets it already; the world’s gonna end.

Cas is watching him outright, not even pretending to be interested in the television. His gaze is sharp and a tiny bit scary. Not like he means any harm, just- Cas’ attention is like being under a microscope, and sometimes he understands Sam better than Sam is comfortable with.

“Ugly?” Dean asks dryly, “I know you’ve got a crush on him dude, but Vincente looked pretty bad there at the end.”

“Not Vincente. Lucifer. Like-” Sam gestures at the air around himself. His aura or something. Sam can’t really explain what he means. “His wings.”

Dean pauses where he's reaching for the light switch. He gets that cautious look on his face that he uses when Sam is crazy. Not normal Sam crazy- really over the top, seeing things, psychotic Sam crazy. Sam thought- Well, he knows he’s not doing perfectly at the moment, but he thought he was okay.

Dean opens his mouth but Cas speaks first.

"Dean doesn’t know what you mean, Sam. He didn’t see Lucifer’s wings. They’re part of an angel’s true form, generally visible to humans only as shadows." And, to Dean, "There are exceptions."

"What?" Sam shakes his head, suddenly wishes he'd drunk less. "No." That can't be right. He’s Lucifer’s vessel; which okay, sure, maybe explains that one situation. But hasn’t he seen Cas’ wings too?

 _Has_ he seen Cas' wings?

Has he seen them awake and sane?

He can’t remember.

"It appears Sam perceives some measure of an angel's true form when he uses his powers."

"No," Sam says again. He shakes his head. "No way. I- No. My powers are gone, Cas. _They're gone_." His voice is rising, and he thinks he might sound a little hysterical. Thank god he's sitting down, because the lights are too bright and the knock-off Mondrian wallpaper has sparks swimming around its corners.

"Sam, breathe, dude. You're okay."

He's really not.

Cas regards him sympathetically, but he doesn't take it back. "Even in an inappropriate vessel, as he was, your physical body alone couldn't have held the doors against Lucifer. I'm sorry if you wish it was otherwise."

Sam runs a trembling hand through his hair. He has to calm down.

"Maybe- could they have come back because Lucifer's free?" That wouldn't be so bad. Once they get the devil back in the Cage, Sam's powers could go away again. He can stand it for a while. He takes a deep breath.

"Unlikely," Cas says, and if there's mercy in his voice, it's the mercy of a surgeon, "Chances are, you've had them all along. They may have changed over time; become less extreme without the influence of demon blood. Dreams; perhaps some subtle influence on the environment, like the doors at the club; better than average cognitive prediction of events."

"But I would've known, right? I swear I never-"

Sam breaks off, because he's only just noticed that he's put his drink down somewhere and is digging his thumb into the flesh of his palm, and he makes himself stop, because Dean is up and walking towards Sam's bed, and it's only a couple of steps of course, and-

"Sam. It's okay."

Sam thinks he might throw up.

Dean comes and sits next to him on the bed, and picks Sam's drink up off the floor and offers it to him, and then puts it on the nightstand when Sam doesn't take it. The bedspread is orange and brown. If Sam throws up on it, it'll probably blend right in.

"Just listen for a minute, okay, Sam? And then you can freak the fuck out some more or whatever if you need to."

Dean looks down at his hands. The ugly motel lighting deepens the worry lines at the edges of his mouth, and casts his eyes in shadow.

"When I first got outta Hell, I didn't know how strong you were.

"I thought, well, I was arrogant and stupid, is what I was. All I could see was how easy I'd been to corrupt; I was practically a demon when Cas got me. And I underestimated you."

"Dean, you weren't-"

"Shut up, Sam. My point is, we were both young then, and we're not the same people now. Are you craving a fill-up from the old sulfur juice box?"

"Jesus, Dean. No!"

"Then it's not an issue. C'mon and relax, man. You can't fight the devil on an empty stomach and no sleep."

Dean gets back up, and this time he grabs the caesar salad off the kitchenette table and pushes it at Sam’s chest. Sam accepts it gracelessly. The greens are wilted and it's got a grand total of two puny chicken strips. Sam should've thrown it out while he still had the chance. He manages to stab a couple of the least pathetic lettuce leaves with his plastic fork, even though his hands are still trembling.

Dean's not angry.

He's not even suspicious.

"This movie sucks," Dean says.

Sam knows for a fact Dean doesn't think T2 sucks. Dean loves pretty much every movie on the face of the planet that features explosions. He loves everything Arnold Schwarzenegger has ever been in. If he could somehow grow up to be Arnie, even at this late date, he probably would.

Dean steals the remote from Cas, and the channel guide pops back up on the screen. Cas seems unperturbed. He's still watching Sam more closely than the TV anyway.

Sam forks up a piece of chicken.

"How 'bout _Bikini Bloodbath Carwash_?" Dean asks, "Sequel to the rack-alicious _Bikini Bloodbath_ , only, you know. In a carwash."

"Sure," Sam says. He really doesn't care. He's trying to wrap his head around the fact that he's had his demon powers all this time. He’s been lying to himself and everyone else for years, and neither Dean nor Cas seem the least bit upset.

Dean gives Sam a skeptical once over. "Fine; don’t wanna see a bunch of half-naked babes get offed in a carwash, just say so. _Evil Bong?_ "

Sam smiles despite himself. "You're making that up."

"I would never," Dean says indignantly. "It says right here 'zombie strippers, deadly lap dances', and guess what kinda cursed object. Go on, guess."

"Uh, a toaster oven?"

Dean’s grin lights up the room. They watch _Evil Bong_.

Sam eats his awful salad, while Dean settles himself into bed and has a decidedly moderate one shot of JD. Cas comments on the effects of various recreational substances and the unlikelihood of zombies pursuing a career in sex work. The protagonists of _Evil Bong_ make a series of unfortunate entertainment decisions, but most of them live.

"You should try to sleep, Sam. It's been a long day," Cas says, "I'll wake you if there are any problems."

Sam contemplates sleep and is surprised to find his eyelids heavy and his heart rate regular and not too fast. He goes in the bathroom to change, and when he comes back out, the lights are off, Dean is curled up on his side with his eyes closed, and Cas has dragged an armchair over and is sitting between Sam and Dean's respective beds, watching a documentary about sloths, at low volume.

Sam should probably thank them. Dean cant be asleep yet, and Sam's not so stupid he can't see they've both been taking care of him. But he doesn't know what to say, so he just gets in bed and rearranges his lumpy pillows and horrifying bedspread until he's reasonably comfortable, and says good night.

As he's closing his eyes, there's a gentle whoosh. He looks up through his lashes, and there, like a Magic Eye illusion that disappears when seen head on, are what can only be Cas' wings. Sam can't make out particulars; no color or even exact shape or outline, just a vague impression of something tattered but still imposing, spread wide over Sam's bed and Dean's both, to shield them while they rest.

"Sleep well," Cas says, and goes back to his show.


	4. Chapter 4

 2017.

Cas is dead.

Really dead; wingprints baked into the dirt, gone forever dead.

Dean is a mess. He's reckless in fights and unnecessarily cruel to Jack. Sam is only holding it together because someone has to. They burned Cas' body a week ago, and took Jack back to the bunker, and pretended to go on with their lives, because what else was there to do?

But then Sam had a dream of the cabin, so here they are. Sam is still getting used to the idea that his dreams are valuable information, good for something that isn’t Azazel.

Sam looks out the kitchen window. Dean is sitting on the back porch steps, a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey beside him. Cas' wingprints and the charred remnants of his pyre are both still visible, marring the ground in front of Dean's feet. The view is similar to the one in Sam's dream, the placement of the big tree in front of the lake and the position of the sun against the horizon almost right, but not quite. Sam grabs a glass from the cabinet, and heads outside.

The door creaks when Sam opens it, but Dean doesn't turn to make sure it's Sam who's at his back.

"Planning on drinking that whole bottle yourself?"

Dean picks it up, considering; takes a swig. "That a problem?"

"Yeah, it is," Sam says mildly, crowds past Dean down the steps, and holds out his glass. Dean fills it up. There's gotta be four or five shot's-worth in there when he's done. Emergency drinking again.

"So how's Satan, Jr doing?"

Sam hands over his phone with the messaging app open.

_Everything here is fine. Winter Soldier was good, but I liked Pretty Princess and the Monsters from Mars better. Can tentacles really do that?_

Dean doesn't crack a smile, but he manages an amused snort.

"Great. Rosemary's week old baby is watching my porn."

"He could be down the street stark naked, smoking weed and eating nougat with that sheriff’s kid," Sam offers, "so we should probably count our blessings."

Sam lowers himself to the porch steps, and they drink in silence. The view looks more correct from that position. The sun slides down the sky, reflected in red ripples on the surface of the lake. The mountains in the distance fade to a rich, dusky green.

"Remember when that douche Zachariah sent me into the future?" Dean asks, "When you were working on your sobriety or whatever?"

Yeah, of course Sam remembers. Dean never told him much about it, but Sam is the world's foremost expert on Dean's silences, and he figured out long ago he must've let Lucifer possess him. Hard to forget after that.

"Me and Cas," Dean continues, "we were a thing."

Huh. "Like a sexual thing?"

"Yeah."

Well, that's unexpected.

And Dean's known it for, what, eight years now, that in a different life he and Cas were romantically involved.

Sam's not quite sure what to make of it. He watches the sparrows fly across the cloudless sky. Dean takes another couple chugs from the bottle. He must be pretty intoxicated by now, although like always, it doesn't show. He turns the bottle in his hand, peels off bits of label.

"I ruined him, Sam," he says, flat as death, "All the other angels took off somewhere, but Cas stayed. 'Cause he was an idiot in the future too, I guess. I treated him like shit, fucked him all up. And then I got him killed, for nothing."

It was a future custom-picked to show Dean their worst selves, and Dean's not stupid; he knows that. But the easy way the whole world careened down a track to disaster because of one tiny change in Dean's decision-making isn't pleasant to contemplate. Get a little pissy and don’t call Sam: civilization collapses, Heaven closes, Hell opens up shop above ground, all his friends and family die. No wonder Dean is afraid of himself sometimes.

Sam has another couple swallows of his drink. A chill is creeping into the air as evening falls, and the whiskey is pleasantly warm. If the world wobbles and his stomach lurches after it when he turns his head too fast, still, the edges of the past are softening out, so its not a terrible trade.

"None of it really happened, Dean. And Cas is his own person. I don’t know about that other future, I wasn't there. But in the real world, it’s not your fault things went wrong."

“It is though, Sam. Cause you and me are 'too important', 'the world needs us' or whatever the fuck,” Dean's voice makes angry air quotes, “and Cas is just a fucking tool.

“God, he pisses- Pissed. He pissed me off so much. I told him we were family. That should've been enough, right?” Dean's shoulders are hunched, and he's blinking too much and looking around at nothing, in that way he has when he's trying not to cry. “What else was I supposed to do, Sam? The future where we fucked, he died then too."

In the distance, frogs are peeping on the lake-shore. There's a light breeze; just enough to rustle the leaves of the surrounding trees. Cas' wingprints in the twilight don't cast quite the pall they did in the burning clarity of day. Sam feels a weird calm inside, an eye in the center of the storm of their lives.

In a way, Dean is right. Cas measured his worth in his utility. He loved Dean, they both know he did, so he offered what he had; he used himself up. And now he's gone and it can't be fixed.

Sam gulps down the dregs of his Wild Turkey. His dream was just flashes, but this is it- the pivot point, he can feel it, the weight of it, the brittleness in the air like the drop in pressure before a storm. Here is where the fork is.

He's surprisingly unafraid. Dean measures his worth in his utility too. Sam is not going to lose them both. He’s just not.

He turns to face his brother.

"I want to kiss you," Sam says.

Dean blinks. His expression fades into a blank kind of nothing.

"I want to lay you down in the gravel, and fuck you into the ground. I should've told you years ago."

Dean blinks a couple more times. He rubs his hand over his face, and breathes out a long, shaky sigh. His mouth turns down in an exasperated line.

At least he doesn't look like he's about to cry anymore.

"Well that's just great, Sam. I tell you Cas and I- that I should've. Well, whatever. And now he's dead. And your brilliant solution is _hey, let's bang?_ ”

Sam shrugs.

"Seriously? This is why you dragged me here? You had a dream we were- " Dean makes a vague gesture between them with his liquor bottle. "And you thought, hey let's go up to where Cas fucking _died_ Sam, and see if it comes true?"

Put like that, it sounds pretty bad. He almost apologizes. But he isn't sorry, and he's tired of lying.

"Did I tell you I dreamed about the hellhounds?" he asks instead, "Not, uh, not before your deal. During your year, when I was already doing everything I could to save you, so it's not like there was even a point. Must've dreamed it, I dunno, fifteen or twenty times.

"I couldn't see them, you know? I mean, sorry, that's stupid, obviously you know. But there'd be all this blood, just pouring out, gashes and- just, god, everywhere. And you were screaming. It went on for so long. And then you'd just. Stop. Because, ah. Anyway.

“I'd wake up so freaked out. I didn't think it could be any worse. But when it came, it was."

Dean turns his empty, nearly labelless, bottle in his hands. He picks off the few last pieces of soggy paper and flicks them idly at the ground. He's smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

"I don't expect you to like it, Dean. I'll never bring it up again if you don’t want me to. I just. You're not a tool to me. I thought you should know."

They sit there in silence for what probably isn’t as long as it seems. Sam's ass aches from sitting on the wooden step too long in one position. Its almost dark, and it's really pretty cold by now. His layers aren't doing the trick.

Eventually, Dean levers himself up off the stoop without further comment. Sam figures it went well enough. Better than expected. He didn’t get hit.

There's no more liquor in the house, so now Dean'll go find a dive bar, and that's, well that's Dean. Sam's almost completely sure he'll come back when he's had time to process. It's not like no one's ever pointed out to Dean they're inappropriately close for brothers before.

Dean doesn't head for the Impala though. He steps down off the porch and stands directly in front of Sam. The crotch of his jeans is level with Sam's eyes.

"Um." Sam swallows hard, "Dean?" The outline of Dean's cock is inches from Sam's tongue.

"Dean, what're you doing?"

"Really, Sam? You need the birds and bees speech again?"

"Dean."

Dean makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat, and rolls his eyes. Sam has to look up to see it, and Dean looks larger than life, so close up.

"I'm lonely, Sam, okay? I miss Cas," Dean's voice cracks. He clears his throat and goes on. "And he's dead, and he's not coming back. Did you wanna fuck me or not?"

Sam has wanted to fuck Dean since he was fourteen. Possibly longer. He's not convinced it’s a bad idea anymore.

He reaches for Dean's belt buckle. Dean smiles the manic, giddy smile he gets when they've been staking out some especially miserable location, and he's cold and cramped and bored, and then the monster shows, and Dean's finally gonna get to kill something.

"Well alright," he says, and tangles his fingers in Sam's hair.

The world narrows to the button of Dean's fly, the rasp of the zipper, the crests of Dean's hips as Sam pulls down his jeans.

Dean's cock is visibly hard under his boxer-briefs, and there's a wet spot at the tip that Sam sets right to work making larger. He licks at it, and it mostly tastes and feels like cotton, but there's a teasing hint of salt too, and more than a hint of musk. He nuzzles at Dean's cock through the fabric, turns his head and kisses and mouths along Dean's shaft in a long, damp line.

Dean breathes in sharp little cut-off gasps, and pets and tugs absently at Sam's hair while he lets Sam touch him, lets Sam put his mouth all over him. It's a miracle Sam never for a moment expected, and knows he doesn't deserve. He wants to crush Dean in his arms, feel his body writhe, make him come a hundred times, a thousand.

He hooks his fingers in the waistband of Dean's boxer-briefs, and pulls. Dean's cock springs free, full and heavy, flushed dark in the twilight. Sam's own dick is hard in his jeans. Sam wraps a hand around Dean's shaft, laps up the precome at the slit. He runs his tongue around the crown, licks at the frenulum, and listens to Dean gasp. He takes the head of Dean's cock in his mouth. Dean's hand tightens in his hair, and he swallows Dean down so his lips meet his hand around Dean's base. He sucks hard, Dean's cock against his pallet and the weight of him on his tongue.

"Jesus fuck, Sam," Dean groans, and now both his hands are twisted in Sam's hair, and his hips buck and Sam moans around Dean's cock, lets Dean pull him in tighter, fuck his mouth however he wants to. It's messy and a little too deep for comfort, and he's drooling around Dean's cock and kind of working on his breathing so he doesn't gag, and he has to grab Dean's ass cheeks to keep from losing his balance, and it's perfect; perfect. He looks up as best he can, though the position's not ideal; and he'd die and go back to Hell before he'd ever embarrass them both by saying it, but Dean is beautiful.

The setting sun is at Dean's back so he's outlined in gold, and the exhaustion that's habitually on his face these days is smoothed out by the shadows. His eyes are closed and his lips parted and his head thrown back in pleasure, and if Sam wasn't sucking on his dick, he'd have his mouth all over Dean's adam's apple, so exposed and unselfconscious. Dean's flannel over-shirt is unbuttoned and his tee underneath is tight against the planes of his chest. He's everything Sam has ever wanted, and he looks like a god to Sam, come down from Olympus to steal Sam away and hide him jealously somewhere where no one will ever find him again, and Sam's okay with it finally. He's willing to pay.

"Jesus, Sam, Sam, stop," Dean says, as if Sam was directing the action in the first place, "Gonna come in about five seconds if you don't get offa me, and I ain't as young as I used to be. Can't promise you a second act."

Sam honestly could not care less, but Dean pulls him off his cock, and wrestles his own boots and socks off and his pants and underwear from around his ankles. He eyes the ground skeptically and leaves his flannel on. It looks a little dumb, and Sam finds it hopelessly endearing.

"I can't believe I'm fucking doing this. Gonna be pulling gravel outta my ass for a week," he mutters, and finds a somewhat even patch of dirt and lays himself down on it. He pillows his head casually on his hands, elbows out to the sides, like he's watching pay per view on a motel bed, and then he rolls his eyes dramatically, and grins huge and honest, and says _I swear, the things I do for family_ , and Sam can't help laughing, because he's ecstatically happy and Dean is and always has been insane.

Sam doesn't bother to undress at all. His dick is hard and aching, trapped in his jeans, but he'll get to it soon enough. He's taking the few steps over to kneel between Dean's legs, when he notices that in finding the flattest piece of ground to lay on, Dean has ended up with a shoulder in the charred black burn of one of Cas' wingprints. Sam swallows dryly. It's not so funny and lighthearted after all. He darts a glance over, and at least no part of Dean is touching the remains of the pyre.

It doesn't make him want to fuck Dean any less. He kneels down between his brother's pale thighs and touches him.

"Dean," he says.

"Yeah, Sammy?"

He doesn't have a follow-up.

He skims his fingers over Dean's face, his lips. Dean nips at him, but he skirts away, runs his hands down Dean's neck on both sides, over his collarbones, pulls at the bottom of his tee shirt until he can get his hands under it, and touches the bare skin of Dean's chest, circles his nipples, touches them lightly, follows the valleys between his ribs, puts his palms on the softness of Dean's belly, the strong muscle of his thighs. He bends down and blows Dean's cock some more, holds him still by the hips while he licks and sucks and let's his spit leak down past Dean's balls and into the cleft of his ass.

Dean whines at him to hurry while Sam wets his fingers in his own mouth. He opens Dean up while Dean bucks and swears and pushes back on Sam's hand. Dean is soft and giving inside except for the firm little bump of his prostate. Sam drags his fingers back and forth across it to hear Dean moan, moves his fingers in and nearly all the way out of Dean's body, again and again, to feel the clench of his rim.

He thinks for a heartbeat about the condom he doesn't have on him, because that's Sam's brain: even drunk and finger-fucking Dean, it just doesn't know when to shut up. But then he thinks about the hellhounds too, about being drenched in Dean's blood when he held his corpse, about his own death by stabbing in Dean's arms. Dean would mock him mercilessly.

So that's how it is; he's gonna raw his brother in the shadow of his dead best friend's wings, and he doesn't even feel guilty.

He unzips his pants with shaking fingers, takes himself in hand, strokes himself a couple times to spread his precome along his shaft. He gets his palm wet with spit, and strokes a couple times more.

Dean's hole is flushed and puffy with arousal. Sam circles and teases it with the head of his cock, then sinks in slow, as achingly slow as he can. His dick throbs from the pleasure of Dean tight and warm around him, and his balls pull up tight. By the time he starts moving, Dean is beside himself with waiting, ass off the ground pushing into Sam's thrusts, heels dug into the small of Sam's back for leverage, arms around Sam's shoulders to bring their bodies closer together. Dean's cock rubs a hard, slippery line against Sam's belly when he pushes his hips up into Sam's strokes.

He bites and kisses Sam's neck, then pulls Sam's mouth down onto his own, opens up, and they're both of them breathing the same air, groaning into each other's mouths.

“Sam, Sam, Sam,” Dean moans, nothing else, just Sam's name.

Sam's not gonna last much longer; he can feel the little, involuntary jerks of his dick and the building rush low in his groin that means impending orgasm. He works his hand between his hips and Dean's, and he's barely laid his palm on Dean's cock before Dean cries out and comes.

Sticky warmth floods over Sam's hand. He grinds into Dean harder, and Dean bucks up to meet him.

“C'mon, Sammy, c'mon,” Dean says low and gritty in his ear, and the wave crests over Sam and drowns him in bliss.


	5. Chapter 5

 2018.

They don't fuck again.

Being Winchesters, they aren't about to discuss it unless some horrible disaster forces them to, and none quite bad enough arrives. Dean skirts around Sam's passes, and Sam says nothing. Cas is miraculously revived, and Sam says nothing even harder. Dean was grieving; now he's not. Sam gets that. In the catalog of their relationship issues, a one-time sexual encounter barely warrants a footnote.

It shouldn't bother him.

But it does.

 

-*-*-

"Great," Dean says, "that did bupkis."

Cas peers at the curdled remains of the tracking spell. "It looks like oatmeal," he complains. Or maybe he's just observing; it's a fine line with Cas sometimes.

" 'Bout as useful too." Dean picks up the bowl and the syringe beside it. "Might as well dump it. Maybe the alligators in the sewer can find Michael." His eyes cut to Sam, but he looks away again before Sam can guess what's hiding behind the flatness of his irritation.

There are plenty of choices. Dean's skin is sallow and his eyes are dull with lack of sleep, and he holds his body now in the same tense, hyper-vigilant lines he did when he first got back from Hell. Except for practicalities, he hasn't said word one about Michael since they rescued him. It's Dean though, so he'll talk when he wants to and not a second before.

Sam goes back to scrubbing the scuff marks off the warding around the edges of the room. The brass inlay is tarnished, and the entire intricate pattern needs to be checked for scratches. The wards won't stop Michael, but since the AU hunters decided killing Dean with Michael trapped inside him was a good idea, and Sam decided they could fuck right off, archangels aren't the only thing they might need to keep out.

"Leave the syringe," Cas says to Dean, "There's enough grace left to make a second attempt."

"Fine, whatever."

 _Stairway to Heaven_ starts playing, tinny and muffled, from the direction of Dean's pocket, immediately followed by the crack of breaking glass and a muttered _ah, fuck_. Sam looks up in time to see the syringe hit the floor and shatter. Michael's grace puddles around it, smokes like dry ice, and is gone.

Dean answers his cell. He balances it precariously between his ear and shoulder, still muttering under his breath. "Dean here. Yeah. Yeah. No, it didn't do shit," _('Goddamn pretentious Men of Letters, couldn't use plastic like everybody else_. _')_ "What? Oh. Yeah, okay."

One of Dean's hands is bleeding, and he wanders off into the kitchen while he talks. Sam has a prickling sensation between his shoulder blades. The whole thing feels familiar, for reasons he can't quite place.

Cas thumbs through the Men of Letters journal the location spell is recorded in. Dean comes back with a broom. His injured hand is wrapped in a dish towel.

"That was Rowena," he says, "Nothing new on the Michael front from her either." He throws his phone on one of the tables.

Cas stalks over and grabs the broom out of Dean's grasp. "Housekeeping can wait. Let me see that."

"Whoa there, Nurse Ratched." Dean snatches his hand back. "It's totally fine."

Cas doesn't quite snarl, but it's a near thing. He didn't take Dean's absence well, and he apparently hasn't recovered yet either.

"Don’t pretend I can trust you when it comes to your safety," he says venomously.

"Jeez, okay, okay. Didn't know you cared." Dean holds out his hand to Cas, and Cas unwraps Dean's makeshift dressing.

"Of course I care," Cas says low, somewhat mollified now that he's gotten his way, "Not that it matters." He smooths Dean's fingers down to get a better look at the cut, and Dean colors faintly, a light pink blush appearing high on his cheeks and at the tips of his ears.

From his vantage point forgotten at the edge of the room, Sam feels the ghost of dream-Cas' fingers on his palm, and remembers why the scene feels so familiar. He flushes too, darker than Dean, he's sure, and grateful no one is paying attention.

"There," Cas says. Dean flexes his fingers, good as new.

He makes a play for the broom, and for a second Sam imagines him overbalancing and ending up in Cas' arms, necking in a dime store romance version of Sam’s dream so long ago. It’s ridiculous, and of course it doesn't happen that way. Cas keeps the broom out of Dean's reach without incident. The weight in the air Sam’s come to recognize is growing heavier around him though, the fork in the river still trying to sweep him away. His ears pop from the pressure.

"Go rest,” Cas says to Dean, “Sam and I will take care of this. The grace extraction procedure is stressful to the body. You should sleep."

Dean protests, insists he was fine before, and now that Cas has fixed him, he's even better. But it's obvious Cas won't stop bothering him until he complies. He grabs a bottle of whiskey and stalks off to his room.

Sam stands there, useless and dumbfounded.

"What's wrong, Sam?" Cas asks.

"Uh," Sam says articulately.

"You look unwell."

Sam feels unwell.

The dream of him and Cas was _five years ago._

Surely that's too long ago for it to have any current relevance.

And Dean wasn't even in it, dammit. It was Cas and _Sam._

And more importantly- even if it shouldn't be- Sam hadn't slept with Dean yet when he had the dream. He was resigned to what he thought was his fate. Maybe back then he could've- but- And now he's just supposed to-

Jesus.

It's not fair. It's so very completely not fair. Doesn't he get to keep anything?

But he knew even then the dream was mostly about Dean.

And it helped. And Dean needs help.

Sam abandons his post at the wards and holds out his hand for the broom.

"You should check on Dean," he says, "See if he needs anything."

"I healed him four minutes and thirty-two seconds ago. Even Dean couldn't get himself in trouble that fast."

Sam snorts. "Yeah, okay, point taken. But I meant more, maybe he could use some company."

"He doesn't want company."

God, Cas is frustrating. Sam starts sweeping up the broken glass. Cas is watching him through narrowed eyes, another in the constant list of human puzzles to be solved. In the end, Sam is only able to make himself understood by explaining the whole thing.

"I probably shouldn't have told you," he says, when he's done. He has a lump in his throat. It hurts when he swallows.

Cas smiles kindly. He says, "Dean will be angry at first." But somehow it's more of a reassurance than a judgment.

Sam almost manages a laugh. "I uh, I should go do some research now, I guess. Or something."

"No," Cas says, "You should not."

The river pours by and drives them both down the hall.

 

-*-*-

"Oh you've got to be fucking kidding me, Sam."

As expected, Dean's not thrilled.

But he's also not under the covers, and his room lights are on and he's still fully dressed, boots and all, even though his hair's mussed up from sleep. The bottle of whiskey is laying knocked over on the floor, forlorn and empty. And when Dean groans and hides his eyes behind the crook of his elbow like there's a burning morning sun hidden in his ceiling, shining maliciously down on him, and says _You never did know when to shut up_ , he sounds more resigned than anything else.

He manages to crack his eyes open long enough to glare at the glowing red 2:15 marring the clock face, groans again, and drags himself into a semblance of alertness sitting at the edge of the bed.

"Listen Cas, I know you wanna help." He rubs his eyes blearily. "But Sam's an idiot. Who, not for nothin', shoulda minded his own goddamn business."

He glares at Sam. Sam tries to disappear into the puny desk chair Cas insisted he 'make himself comfortable' on while they 'inform Dean of the situation'.

"Getting dicked by an angel is not gonna magically cure me of whatever the two of you think is wrong. No offense."

"None taken," Cas says agreeably. "You and Sam are different individuals. You wouldn't be able to perceive the experience Sam describes, and even if you could, I doubt you'd find it helpful."

"Great. That's settled then," Dean says. But he doesn't look like its great. He looks like he ate something that doesn't agree with him. "Can I go back to sleep now?"

Cas rolls his eyes. "I don't know, Dean. Can you? The evidence since you've returned doesn't suggest it."

Sam can’t possibly scootch far enough back in his chair, because ‘far enough’ would be in a different room.

"I could remove the products of alcohol metabolism from your bloodstream," Cas says, more kindly, "and repair your body's inflammatory stress response. That might help a little."

Dean stares at Cas for a long time, presumably assessing whether there's some trick involved (because, all evidence to the contrary, Dean is not a fool). But eventually he breaks eye contact, and rubs a hand over his face.

"Yeah, sure, Cas. Thanks."

Cas steps forward into Dean's space and lays his fingertips on Dean's forehead. Dean breathes out long and slow. His eyes drift closed and his posture relaxes fractionally.

"I could take your boots off for you. You can't be comfortable sleeping in them."

Dean startles back out of whatever comfort Cas just managed to induce in him. "What? Dude, no. I mean, thanks Cas, but that’s a little- uh. I appreciate the gesture, okay, but I got it."

Cas takes a step back, and Dean's eyes dart to Sam, but what is _Sam_ supposed to do?

Cas fails to withdraw any further. He's well within the bubble of space that once would’ve made Dean shoo him away.

Dean's eyes flick to Sam again. Sam kinda wants to strangle him. He delivered Cas to Dean's doorstep tied up with a Christmas ribbon; what more does he want from him?

The seconds tick by. The opportunity to laugh it off as Cas' naivete dies a lonely, silent death. Eventually, Dean squares his shoulders, swallows hard, and, as carefully as a diplomat in a high stakes international negotiation, says _okay_.

Cas kneels.

Dean fidgets while Cas unties the laces of his boots. There are spots of color high up on Dean's cheekbones. He's breathing pretty rapidly for someone sitting there doing nothing.

Cas discards Dean's boots on the floor beside him, and rocks back on his heels.

"I could kiss you," he says.

"Cas, no. That's not happening. I care about you. I do. And I get what you're trying to do for me. But this isn't a good idea. You don't- I mean-" Dean flounders to a halt. He shifts uncomfortably; leans away from where Cas kneels in front of him.

And the weird thing is (or maybe it's not weird, because this is Dean after all), while Dean is the one doing the rejecting, he's also the one who's distressed.

Cas is sitting there on his knees on the bedroom floor, in his accountant's suit and scuffed up shoes, and he looks every inch the implacably zen-like Angel of the Lord. Sam would hardly be surprised if he manifested a lion's head and a few thousand extra eyes, and intoned unto them both that he waited two hundred million years for man to evolve from a fish, so a decade here or there for Dean to grow a pair won't kill him.

But Dean. While Dean is talking to Cas, and reacting to Cas, he's still _staring_ right at Sam. And if he's not quite panicked, he's approaching its vicinity. He's starting to sweat at the temples, and his skin is blotchy and a little flushed, like it gets when he's trying to summon some anger to cover over his fear. The room is so small Sam can see his heart rate climbing in the pulse in his neck. And his eyes are locked on Sam's with the same intensity they'd be if he was under some secret duress and depending on Sam for rescue.

So it turns out Sam knows why Cas wanted him here after all.

Sam clears his throat.

"Dean liked it, that one time," Sam says, slow and deliberate to Cas, but eyes on Dean alone. His voice is lower than he expected, sandpaper rough, "when I sucked him off."

Dean's lips part.

"I could suck you off," Cas says, perfectly calm.

Dean draws in a shaky breath, and time becomes kind of syrupy, because Dean is watching Sam and Sam is watching Dean, and it's hard for Sam even under normal circumstances to ignore how scorchingly hot he finds his brother, how having Dean once did nothing to quench Sam's need to be closer, to disappear inside him. So now, when Dean is this fragile point of longing, it's impossible to concentrate on anything else.

And then, it's just a sliver of an incline of his head, barely a movement at all, but Dean nods. And Cas gets off his knees and matter-of-factly takes off his trench coat.

 

-*-*-

Sam should leave.

Dean's plaid over-shirt and tee are already off, and he's bent forward, pulling his jeans off from around his ankles. Cas is standing beside him, rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt. They're not touching, and it's awkward and intimate in a way that makes Sam's heart hurt, and he really, really should not be here.

He wishes he could escape without any of them having to acknowledge he was present in the first place, but there's no chance in hell of that happening. So he makes some leaving noises as he rises from the chair, lets the chair legs scrape the hardwood when he pushes it back toward the desk. He's half-erect, because Dean is stripping right there in front of him, even if it's not meant for Sam, and he tries to angle his body away from the bed, hoping Dean won't notice, because it's bad enough already without adding that in too.

"I uh, guess I'll go and-"

"Don't," Cas says.

It's only luck- it must be- that Dean has completed the inelegant task of getting his pants and boxer briefs off while sitting, and is straightening back up exactly then. His cock is heavy and flushed against the pale, freckled skin of his thighs, and his nipples are pebbled in the cool of the bunker's mysterious climate control, and he's naked as the day he was born, and Sam sees him; really sees him, without filter. The way he holds himself. The complete lack of that manic energy he had when they fucked in their grief. Dean is still, and almost solemn. And it’s exactly then that Dean looks up at Sam and his pupils blow.

Sam sits back down.

Dean spreads his thighs, and Cas kneels again between them, and takes Dean's cock in his mouth.

"Cas, Cas," Dean moans. He pets Cas' hair, tangles his fingers in it absently, throws back his head and exposes his throat. Cas licks and sucks at Dean's cock with abandon. It's messy and noisy, there's saliva on Cas' chin, and when he pulls off to nuzzle Dean's balls, Dean's cock curves up hard along Cas' cheek, shiny and wet with Cas' spit.

Sam has never done this before. Watched.

It feels hot and dark inside him, wrong in a way his fevered fantasies of Dean once did, before the intensity of their lives overpowered anything he might do inside his head. His own cock aches against the denim of his jeans. He strokes the hard press of it through the fabric, considers unzipping and taking himself in hand.

He could, right? The invitation to stay, to see the two of them like this, surely it's permission. But he's hesitant, for reasons he can't quite place.

"Sam," Cas says. He takes his tongue off Dean, holds Dean's cock around the base, "You could help."

Dean makes a long, low sound in his throat, almost a growl, and his cock twitches in Cas' hand.

Sam's heart is pounding, and he's sweating bullets, and his own dick is throbbing. He does as he's told. Or invited; whatever that was. He takes the two shaking steps to Dean's bed, and gets on his knees beside Cas. One of Dean's legs is between them, and he and Cas kiss, open-mouthed, just above Dean's cock.

Dean groans, and calls him _Sammy_ , and bucks up into Cas' grip. Dean's cock leaks precome, and Cas' mouth tastes like Dean, and it makes Sam shudder- no one thing in particular; all of it, it's overwhelming. He smells ozone then, and a sharp, sudden pain crashes through his temple.

Cas' wings appear. Or Sam can newly see them anyway.

Sam breaks their kiss to look, and Cas reapplies himself to Dean's cock.

"God, Cas, your wings. They're so-"

They're so...

Vocabulary fails him.

They're broken of course, and there's an impression of feathers, jagged and tattered, that makes him want to smooth them down, splint the bones along the tops like they do for birds in those nature documentaries he likes to watch with Cas. But that's a small piece. They look like space too, and the stars that are held there. Like one of those pictures from NASA of eons-distant phenomena translated by the camera into brightly colored pinks and yellows and blues. They remind Sam of summer's nights, and fireworks, and the ratty old black blanket they keep in the back seat of the Impala that Dean wraps him in sometimes when he's injured on a hunt and cold from loss of blood.

"Can I touch them?" he asks.

Cas hums around Dean's cockhead, takes it out of his mouth and regards it like a lollipop. "Mmm, of course, Sam. I'd be honored."

Cas' wings are soft as goose down. Soft as they were in his dream.

Staticky like they were in his dream too.

Cas' eyes close and he sighs when Sam strokes them.

"They're beautiful," Sam says.

Dean is watching him touch the air behind Cas' back- the wings he can't see- and his expression is unguarded and tender.

It's more than he thinks Dean would want him to know, so he hides his face in Dean's groin, and he twines his fingers in Cas' feathers while he laps at the shaft of Dean's cock. Dean's skin is salty, and he smells heady and overpowering. Sam is drunk on it. Cas slides his lips and tongue along Dean's shaft from the side opposite Sam, and they can almost kiss around Dean's cock. They lip at each other's mouths and taste Dean's precome on each others lips. Dean leans back on his elbows, rocks shallowly between them, fucks the space between their mouths.

Cas' arm is around Sam's back. His hand lays gently on Sam's hipbone, just holding him, and Sam's got his own hand, the one that isn't in Cas' feathers, pressed against his dick through his jeans again. He's not really paying it much attention though. He's too wrapped up in Cas and Dean.

Dean’s shallow little thrusts become more erratic. Cas pulls off Dean’s shaft and sucks the head of Dean’s dick back into his mouth, purring like he can't get enough. He hollows his cheeks, and Dean’s rhythm falls apart completely. He thrusts more deeply. His public bone hits Sam's cheek on one side, and Cas’ lips smack up against the corner of Sam’s mouth on the other. And Sam realizes, like some pornographic geometry puzzle, that if he angles his head just right, he can lick along the juncture of Cas’ lips and Dean’s cock.

The two of them together on his tongue feel slick and messy and taste delicious, so he snakes along the edge of Cas’ mouth until he finds a spot at the corner where he can slide his tongue just a tiny bit inside. Dean's cock rubs back and forth along the tip of Sam's tongue. The whole arrangement is awkward, and Sam can't really contribute much, but it must be working for Dean, because his head's thrown back, and he's moaning like crazy, and it's almost no time at all before he floods Cas' mouth with his come. Cas swallows, but not before Sam gets to taste Dean too.

 

-*-*-

After they've reduced Dean to a sated lump in the memory foam, Sam and Cas strip down, and lay beside Dean, and rub off against each other's sweating bodies. Cas' is on top, facing Sam, wings forming a jewel-flecked canopy over the bed. Dean scootches onto his side, and tries gallantly, but also kind of ineffectually, to lend a hand. The position's not right for it though, and Cas bats his hand away a couple times until he settles for hooking his leg over the two of them, and running a dirty play-by-play while he idly strokes Sam's thigh.

"God, Sammy, you're the hottest thing, wanted to bang you since you were jailbait," he says, and "fuck, Cas, bite his nipple again, shoulda seen how he looked when you did that," and "I want that pornstar cock all up inside me; 'spect you to push me into the headboard next time around." Sam's not even sure who that last one is addressed to, and he cares a lot less than he would've guessed. Dean's voice wraps around him. It's smoky and comforting and all their years together and apart, and Cas' body is its perfect counterpoint, pressing Sam down and holding him securely in just this one single place.

Cas stills when he comes, like he did in Sam's dream, but the lights in Dean's room shatter this time, and Cas is only quiet, not maintaining a distance. Sam comes like an earthquake.

And yet, undeniably perfect as it is, the main event is the aftermath, when they're all three side by side on their backs, squished together because the bed's not big enough, while Sam's heart rate slows back down to something approaching a normal human speed.

"Holy fuck, that was the best blow job ever," Dean says. He's looking up at the diamond-patterned shadows cast by the hall lights on the ceiling.

"Do you feel cured yet?" Cas asks dryly.

"My dick sure as shit does."

"It may require several treatments to achieve the full effect."

Dean snorts. "Tomorrow, dude. And other dude. I'm feeling kinda tired at the moment."

There's a smile in Cas' voice when he says "Since sleep was the intended outcome, I can hardly complain."

Dean's eyelids are already sliding shut. He must see something on Sam’s face though, something Sam hasn't even noticed yet himself, because he thwacks Sam with his elbow in that special Dean way that means _I’m about to tell you something and then pretend I didn't. Not my fault; I was raised by wolves._

“It’s gonna be alright, Sam,” he says earnestly. Sam rubs his ribs where Dean elbowed him, although it doesn't actually hurt.

Dean turns the earnestness up about five more notches and adds, “How many times I gotta tell you I’m a sex god before you believe it? And you and Cas’ll do in a pinch too.” He pats Sam on the knee; half big brother, half manly bro. “We’ll work it out. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, “okay.”

He finds, to his surprise, that he's pretty sure it's true. He already knows they’re gonna fuck it up. They’ll get frightened and defensive and angry and stupid. They barely ever go a year without a disaster. But _we’ll work it out_ , from Dean, is a commitment as solid as prophesy.

More solid even.

Prophesy, they sometimes change.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone! This is my longest fic to date, and despite being mostly porn, is quite personally meaningful to me, so I hope you enjoyed it and that it made you smile. 
> 
> I feel a little awkward gushing about the allusions in fic titles, but for those of you who know Leonard Cohen's _Paper Thin Motel_ , you may remember it as an angry song about betrayal. I never cared much for the original. I'm poly, and poly people tend to see infidelity differently than Cohen does. But [this beautiful cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WlTsET0UU4Y) by Greg Dulli is as close as it's possible to come in one song to my view of how love really works when it's not easy. It's a sadder song than I hope my fic is, but the acceptance in it is the place I think people repair their relationships from. 
> 
> In other important liner notes, I'm sad to admit that although _Evil Bong_ is a real movie, I haven't seen it. I assume since it's horror, that contrary to my assertion, most of the protagonists don't in fact live. So my very serious and humble apologies to the ones whose deaths I callously ignored because I wanted that section of my fic to have an optimistic feel. :) 
> 
> I love to chat, so hit me up with comments about the characters, relationships, porny sex acts, referenced episodes, or pretty much anything else, and I'll love you forever. ♥


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